A Sampled Heartbeat
by Floralia
Summary: An exorcism gone wrong leaves Dean fuming and Ruby’s plans spiralling out of control; she needs Sam alive.


**Titles:** A Sampled Heartbeat

**Warnings:** RUBY! Also, some swearing and I've probably taken huge liberties with the medical stuff. Please take into account I had the idea for this very early in season 4, and it was written and set just after Heaven & Hell. At the time, while it was assumed Ruby had an agenda, it wasn't clear what that was. I never went back to add it in, but hopefully it still works as is.

**a/n:** I own nothing. This was beta-ed by Sendintheclowns and Gidgetgal9 way back when (thanks girls!), and they argued in favour of it being posted. I've sat and stared at it for ages since then, and fiddled a bit more, so any mistakes are mine.

-0-

She can hear them arguing before she even gets out of the car, voices hot and angry, and she's so tired of it she could vomit. She'd thought they'd benefit from her staying out of the way – lord knows she'd enjoyed the quiet, the freedom from Dean's sideways glances and not so veiled threats – but obviously the idea they might have taken the time alone to get over their differences was too much to ask. She'd been pissed at them for insisting they set up base out here in the middle of no-where, but any closer to town and they'd have alerted every demon in a five mile radius with their bickering.

Sighing wearily she slams the car door shut. If they were going to be at it anyway she might as well have gone with them, find out what they were saying about her. But being around for a standard exorcism wasn't a great idea, especially with Dean in his current mood. And somebody needed to crosscheck their sources, make sure pool boy was the only one they were dealing with here. She'd not been able to find traces of any other demons working the area and she'd been hoping they could leave, but something about the raised voices tells her things probably hadn't run smoothly.

Dean practically bowls her over on her way to the front door, shoulder slamming into hers with a force that makes her stagger and almost drop the bags she's carrying. There's a growl low in his throat and he's flashing that special look of distain he seems to reserve purely for her, and she scowls in return. There's a bruise on his cheek and his lip is split, but she's met her end of the bargain and if he couldn't keep his own up and exorcise an incompetent mischief demon unaided that really isn't her problem. As she's reminded him several times – no-one _asked_ him to come along. She and Sam have handled plenty worse in the past without resorting to temper tantrums.

Anyone would think they needed to be kept under supervision or something.

But if the Winchesters did mess up, there's still work to do.

"Where are you going?" she asks him, before his too long strides can carry him too far past her.

"Out." He growls, not looking back, just wrenching open the door of his car and throwing himself inside. Even the roar of the Impala as he pulls away sounds annoyed.

"No, that's okay. We'll just take things from here." She calls after him, knowing he can't hear her, but his annoyance is contagious. It isn't like there aren't things she's rather be doing than bumming around here in the middle of nowhere.

"What's eating him?" she mutters as she crosses the threshold into the warm, closing the door behind her. As she'd expected Sam is still in the room Dean has just fled from, but he doesn't answer the question. In fact he barely glances in her direction before disappearing through a door at the other side of the room and escaping into the kitchen.

"No, it's fine. I've got it," she grumbles after him as she struggles out of her jacket and throws the bags of supplies she's been carting around for them into a heap on the nearest sofa.

Sam's hunched over the sink, watching the water swirling down the drain when she enters the kitchen. When she opens her mouth he jumps slightly, as though taken by surprise.

"I'm guessing it didn't go well?" she smiles, stating the obvious.

"Wha..?"

"The exorcism," she clarifies with eyebrows raised.

"Oh… no, it's done."

"Then what was the problem?" This demon was an amateur, hardly worth their time. They had their traps already in place – it shouldn't have had the opportunity to cause them trouble. To cause the damage and the thunder she's seen on Dean's face.

"He had company."

"Ah. And that's my fault how?" She was following their lead on this – she could have killed it herself days ago but Dean had confiscated her knife, and apparently preferred to subject a fourteen year old boy to a lengthy and traumatic exorcism rather than let Sam handle it in seconds. If his methods had backfired on him, he had no-one to blame but himself.

"Not everything's about you, Ruby," Sam murmurs wearily. He fills a glass with water and shuts off the tap, turning to face her with one hip and an elbow leaning heavily against the counter at his side. He still isn't giving her eye contact.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The glass is halfway to Sam's lips but he looks away from it and sighs, lowering his hand too fast and the glass hits the counter with a thump that makes him flinch.

"Sam?"

"I'm tired," and he looks it, sounds it, she feels it just being around him. He picks the glass back up and moves past her, free hand leaning heavily on the door jamb as he leaves the room. She'd thought it was an admission, not a dismissal, and she sighs and follows him out. They might both be feeling overly melodramatic tonight but that doesn't mean he has to make her follow him around like a dog.

"What's going on?"

His shoulders slump at her voice and that hurts more than she'd like. She's trying to help him. She's not the one yelling or judging, and she deserves more than this.

"Just… we'll talk in the morning, I can't do this now."

He turns to face her at the threshold to his room, and beneath the heavy sadness there is something like apology in his eyes, and that scares her.

"What have you done?" But he just shakes his head and walks away from her, swinging the door closed behind him. "Sam?"

She catches the door before it can shut completely and wrenches it outwards, but she never makes it into the room. She can see his shoulders stiffen in the dull lamplight, can practically feel the tension in his pose, but then she's looking away from him and downwards to the thick trail of white crystals that line the doorway, and her breath catches.

"Don't…" Sam whispers.

"What the hell..?" She can't even finish the question, can't make him look at her, and there's anger and fear and something else she can't identify and it's all too much for words but she _needs_ an explanation for this. Things have changed since Dean came back, she knows that, but if he wasn't going to let her into his mind or his bed she'd thought he'd at least let her in the room. She can't think of a time when he's ever done this, can't think of anything that might have happened in the past hour to be causing it now, and how is she supposed to fix this if she can't even get in? If she can't touch him.

"Don't what?" she asks at last, and she's proud of how even her voice is, the hard edge to it. Proud that her anger at the injustice can override the hurt.

"Is this because of Dean? Because he isn't even here…"

"What? No… I just… _I_ need this, okay… I need to just… please leave me alone. We can talk later, I promise, I just…"

"Look at me. _Look_ at me," she bellows. If he's going to cut her out he's going to damn well do it to her face. His eyes flick briefly in her direction again before he moves over to the bed, stumbling slightly, and starts rifling thought his jacket pockets. "Sam…"

He looks so miserable that her voice softens, and his stance softens with it.

"I'm sorry," he tells her. "It's been a long night, I just want to sleep, I don't really want company right now," he mumbles to his pockets.

"You couldn't have just asked...?" she doesn't know if he realises how degrading this is. She's bent over backwards for him, she's endured Dean's moods and his threats, and for the most part he's defended her, but she has no equivalent for what he's just done. The line this crosses. There is no lock she can put in front of him that he couldn't pick, but this, one simple salt line, is so final.

"Would you have listened?"

"Screw you," she whispers, pleased to see his cheek twitch as though she'd just slapped him, because that's what she wants to do. She knows she's pushed on occasions, but she has her reasons, and she's always catered to his needs, whether he appreciates what they are or not.

Sam looks at her and nods, and she chooses to take that as an apology. "I just want to sleep," he whispers.

She sighs, preparing to move away. Less than ten minutes ago he and Dean had been arguing, and she'd heard the frustrated cadence of his voice booming through the walls, and she can't help but think that this is what Dean needs to see. Not the anger, not how far Sam's skills have progressed, but how wasted and drained his brother leaves him, the lengths he will go to to not have to think.

It's the rattle of a pill bottle that halts her, his frustrated fumbling at the childproof cap.

"Headache?" she asks him, even if she doesn't want to push. Wants to be the one his hurts and frustrations are not directed at.

"What..? Yeah." He frowns distractedly, squinting slightly as he tips three pills into his palm.

Given the volume of Dean's presence it's hardly surprising, but she's seen this before – the hunched shoulders, the pinched brow. That dull, slightly lost expression.

"You use your powers tonight?" she asks him, already knowing the answer. "I thought Dean was hell bent on Latin."

"He was... he did."

"But you still…"

"Maybe, yeah… _No_." He says the last one firmly, but all she hears is the thick slur to his voice.

"Sam. I think you need to let me in," she says quietly.

"Mm fine," but the shake in his hand, the way he weaves as he walks, speaks louder than his words.

"Let me in right now."

"Shit." Sam hunches over with one hand leaning heavily on the bed frame, other hand pinching the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply.

"Sam?" She makes to enter again, sighing in frustration at the invisible barrier that holds her back.

"'m alright. It's nothing new, it'll pass."

She knows that, but it's a long time since it's been this bad, and she still doesn't like being shut out, even if it's just shut out of his pain. Doesn't want him to lick his wounds in the dark and silence where they can fester. But he's always preferred to suffer in silence, even when he knows she can help make him feel good. But it's not just a headache that's weighing on him now. An icepack and a little intimacy are not going to cut it this time, because Dean being back has opened up a different kind of grief. One that she doesn't know how to sooth. And she knows better than to push him when he's made up his mind. The fact he went as far as to bar her way means this isn't a decision newly made. She wants the anger back, but she can't remove the cold fist of worry in her gut.

But he's already turned away from her.

"Holler if you need anything," she tells his back. If one's sulking in his room and the other's sulking in his car she's not really sure what she's doing here, there are more effective uses of her time. With a last look at the tense lines of his shoulders as he's perched on the edge of his bed, she moves away from the door.

"Ruby?"

She pauses. "That didn't take long," she smiles, turning to be let back in. But Sam's still sat on the edge of his bed, facing away from her towards the far wall. He's hunched over and his head is low.

When he senses her in the doorway he turns slightly to face her, making real eye contact for the first time all night. Between the hand covering his face and his hair, Sam's eyes are practically the only part of him she _can_ see, wide and watery with fear. But then he removes the hand from his nose and holds it out towards her, fingers twitching slightly, and her vision tunnels in on the violent shade of red.

"Sam?"

"I don…" He's swaying where he sits and he has to lower his head again, but at least he's facing her now. He's facing her and she can see the blood on his face, his hands, and this isn't just a trickle. This isn't something she can smile and brush away and show him the life they've saved. This is blood that's pouring. This is the front of his t-shirt already heavy and stained.

She's moving on instinct but she can't get in. It's not anger that's making her push, it's nothing but fear, but the emotion doesn't matter there's no getting in. She can stamp and kick and strain but it's beyond physical, and Sam's red hand is gripping his hair and his face is screwed up and he's actually keening, and she can't get in the frigging door.

"Sam!" she calls. "Sam, listen to me," and he is, he's watching her, his eyes fixed on hers even as his face scrunches in pain, and every time he closes them just to breathe, they're seeking hers again when they open. "Sam!" She doesn't know if it's trust or fear or desperation that's driving him to it, she just knows that he needs her, that he's looking to her for the first time, and that he's rendered her helpless.

"I'm right here," she tells him, and he nods and flinches and gasps. "I'm right here, but you have to come to me," He looks at her like she's crazy but she can see in his eyes that he knows it's true. Knows that he's alone in this, that she can't help him unless he first helps himself.

She can see him bracing to stand and she sighs in relief. He only has to make it three steps and even if he falls, as long as he falls forward, he will break the salt line. But he's not even on his feet before his breath catches and he chokes out something as close to a scream as she's ever heard him make, low and guttural and his knees cave, and he's on the floor before she'd even realised he was falling, lost behind the bed.

The ground shakes with the impact but those pure crystals stay tauntingly fixed in place. And then there's silence.

"Sam? Talk to me."

She can't see him. She can hear him breathing, but that isn't a comfort, and she'd never realised she would crave the contact more than he did, the pain of not being able to reach out, to reassure and touch.

She drops to her knees in the doorway and bows her head, brow skirting dangerously close to the border but she doesn't care.

She can see him through the gap under the bed, peering out at her through the dark, comforter swaying gently, brushing against one cheek. He's curled but his palm is flat on the floor and he's trying to rise, but that simple act is too much. He has to rest his forehead on the floor just to breathe and there's blood in his ear and she doesn't know what happened to cause this, why one low level demon she hadn't thought worth their time could have brought him so spectacularly to his knees, but she knows she can't pick him back up again. Even if she could reach him there's no way she could fix this. She doesn't even know what _this_ is.

He stills and turns to face her. He's panting and covered in sweat but he's still now, he's just watching her. She tilts her head to take him in but she can't read the expression on his face, the peace beneath his fear. It's only when his brow crinkles in confusion rather than pain that she notices the tears on her face, tickling her nose. But she won't blink or wipe them off. Won't tear her eyes away.

She can't get him out, but it's clear he can't stay there. Dean will kill her before she can even finish getting an explanation out but they need him here. Sam needs him here, but even she knows that won't be enough. Dean might be good for a lot of things, but he can't stop someone bleeding into their brain. She doesn't have his number anyway, and Sam's in no condition to dial. They need help, and they need something a little more conventional, but the phone's in the kitchen and she can't force her limbs to move.

It's then that Sam starts seizing.

She launches herself forward without thinking, and the impact of hitting that invisible barrier sends her careening back onto her ass. She lands hard, wrist twisting under her weight, skinning her elbow against the rough edge of the open door. The pain is sharp and real, like a mental slap, and she doesn't stop moving. She starts skirting backwards, and she's half way across the room while she's still scrambling to her feet. Then she's up, tearing back into the kitchen and fumbling with the phone.

She dials 911 without questioning it. Without pausing to consider the ridiculousness of the action – a demon dialling 911 for a hunter, for anyone at all. The bile she has to swallow down before she can speak.

She wants to rip the operator's tongue out of her face for being so calm, for hearing her fear, the waver in her delivery. She wants to beat her over the head with her false words of comfort – if Ruby has no idea what is going on or how to fix it then how can these stupid humans with their lack of imagination and their stupid medicine have any hope of making it make sense? She wants to kill her for being the only option open to them. For her own need to try.

But she can't do any of these things. She needs this woman and the help she insists is coming, needs it more than she wants to acknowledge.

She hangs up when she's sure help is on the way. Her limbs feel suddenly too heavy, her arms not strong enough to hold the phone to her ear. She doesn't want to hear the action she should be taking – the simple things they will have expected her to be able to do.

She drifts back to the open doorway, feet dragging and numb, and drops to the ground with an impact she knows should have hurt, if only she could feel it.

Sam's still seizing under the bed. She closes her eyes so she doesn't have to see it, but it doesn't help. She can hear it, the sharp staccato beat of his leg against the bedside cabinet, his shoulder and hip against the floor. She saw it once, and she can't un-see it now, no matter how hard she tries. And there's nothing she can do. He's been a part of this world longer then he's been alive and if he's salted the doorway she knows trying the windows will be useless. It's a practice that's been drummed into him since before he knew what he was guarding against, and she can feel no weakness in his defences, even now.

She doesn't know how long it is before he stills, just that it's too long, and as much as she'd hated the convulsing the sickening stillness and silence is somehow worse.

She's leaning against the door-jam, hugging herself for warmth, watching him through her blurring vision for almost a minute before she realises why that is.

Sam is completely silent. And completely still. Not even his chest is rising and falling. And she can do nothing but watch his lips steadily start to blue. Nothing but wonder where the hell Dean is and when he'll be back, and what the hell she's going to say to the paramedics when they get there that can explain why she hasn't at least pulled him out from where he'd fallen, put him in the recovery position. Why she isn't performing CPR. Why she's just sat watching his life and her hope fade away.

It's far too long before she hears the sound of sirens in the distance, before that turns into the crunch of gravel and footsteps outside, and she's on her feet and moving out to greet them, opening the door and pointing the way and not caring if her relief shows.

If Dean's close by sulking then the noise and bustle will send him hurtling home, and she doesn't know if that would be a good thing or not. If she could deal with him on top of flashing lights and shouts and Sam completely unresponsive on the floor.

But Dean doesn't follow them in. And the salt line that had been beyond her is nothing in the face of paramedic boots and a stretcher.

She's at Sam's side in seconds. His skin is cold and she's calling his name, trying to reassure herself that he's still in there, but hands on her shoulders draw her forcibly away and she can't maintain the contact. Don't they realise that she needs this, that _he_ needs this? He needs to know she's there. But they're telling her to let them work, and they're firm, and they're manhandling, and she should be able to kill them in a stolen heartbeat but they're pushing her away and she can't get her limbs to frigging move. Because there's blood pooling on the carpet and it's already on her hands and his shirt and his face, and the lips she used to kiss and tease and bite, that once teased her skin, have turned blue. And now she's in here all she can smell is the fear and the blood and she can read the truth on those uniformed faces.

She almost chokes on the bile in her throat, turning at the last minute to spit and heave, barely understanding this body's stupid human reaction. Barely understanding anything since Dean had knocked her sideways and Sam had refused to look her in the eye.

When she turns back to face them Sam's on his back, the jerks of his body as two strong hands pound on his chest the only sign of movement. Of life. But then she sees the second spectral figure tilt Sam's head back – and the length of the tube she pulls out to cram down his throat – and she's turning away again struggling to breathe.

Two unknown figures are not supposed to hold this much power over her, no-one is, not even Sam, but she can't even find the strength to be angry about that because the fear is too strong. Is whiting out all other thought in her brain. She wants to hate them for being able to help in her place, for their actions that look and sound so much like torture, but she can't because she's truly weak for the first time in decades, and even as she'd pushed and wheedled her way in she'd never imagined he could bring her so low.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

She was supposed to make him strong. She was supposed to make him fight. To live. He was not supposed to bleed out or stop breathing alone on the bedroom floor. She's put too much time and effort in for that.

And if he did – it wasn't supposed to hurt this much.

"Miss… Miss!" She blinks and there's a female face shimmering in her line of sight. "We have to move him now. We need to know if you're coming with us."

"What?"

She looks behind to see they have Sam on a stretcher now, the strong hands that had been pounding on his chest are now rhythmically squeezing the oxygen bag attached to the tube in Sam's throat, and she can see the corresponding rise and fall of Sam's chest. They're no-longer doing chest compressions and she wonders if that means his heart is beating, thinks it must be, and finds the strength to nod and scramble to her feet.

They're half way out of the door in the blink of an eye, Sam in tow, trusting her to follow. It's taken her so long to get in here with him that she won't be separated from him now, not when her own shaking legs are a barrier she can actually overcome.

If they're concerned or critical about her lack of activity so far they don't show it outside a few shared strained glances, and when she scrambles into the ambulance behind them they make room for her. She sits in a kind of numb unreality, gripping hold of one of Sam's still, cold, hands and wondering if he can sense her there, or if she's merely running through the pointless survivors routine she's seen and ridiculed so many times in the past.

The female paramedic has taken over oxygen giving duties, freeing her partner to drive, and as she works she runs through all the questions Ruby knows she should have expected, is surprised they waited so long to issue. She wonders if they'd already tried this tact and she'd been too busy heaving and shaking to care. Or maybe they hadn't wanted to spare the time and energy from getting Sam a pulse and oxygen to hear what she had to say.

Either way she's proud of her ability to answer them now. No, he wasn't on drugs. He wasn't on medication stronger than Tylenol. He might have hit his head, she wasn't sure. He'd been out with his brother so she'll take it up with him (they'd better believe she was going to take it up with him.) He'd been quiet and withdrawn and complained of a headache, unsteady on his feet, shaking, and slurring. Right before he'd passed out and started seizing, and she was an idiot or not putting the signs together sooner. And Dean was an idiot for storming out and leaving him there alone, because while he might not have said it, Sam's every word and action had been a screaming clue there was something wrong.

Not that she could tell them what she thought that something was. She still wasn't sure _she_ believed it. Sam had been unclear on whether or not he'd used his powers but even if he had – the demons they'd faced should have been a picnic compared to what they'd been up against. Time was they'd have given him a skull pounding headache, but they were long past that now. Even with a head injury – hell, even with a limb missing – Sam should have been able to deal with their company without any major problems. And if the demon they'd encountered _had_ been more powerful than they'd expected, she doubted they would both have kept quiet about it. She was the one who'd put them on to this. If she'd let them walk into something they weren't prepared for, or couldn't easily handle, Dean would not have refrained from making her aware of the fact.

But as it was, whatever had happened tonight, Dean hadn't even deemed it necessary to stay. He'd taken off before he knew Ruby had returned, and she clenched Sam's hand tighter and tried to push down the wave of fury at the realisation Dean had essentially left Sam there to die, without looking back. He might not have known it, but she'd figured out something was wrong after barely 5 minutes in Sam's company. Dean had been with him all night. And Dean would have been able to get in that room and keep Sam's body going until help had arrived.

The fear was well and truly reseeding now in the wake of her anger, and she clung to it because it was a more useful and less debilitating emotion. But she had to take a breath and dial it down a fraction when the lights in the ambulance began to flicker. To will herself to calm. The demon in her had caused enough trouble tonight, refusing her access to Sam's room. Interfering with the equipment keeping him alive was not a useful next step.

When the questions were expended the paramedic ignored her, and there was only the wail of the siren and the puff of Sam's artificial breath to break the silence.

She had to relinquish him fully to the hospital personnel when they arrived. She hated handing over control to anyone but people she hadn't even met, who couldn't begin to understand the stakes, and not even being able to stay in the room while they worked, was unbearable. Between the demon and witch aspects of her personality she hadn't been forced to rely on a hospital for centuries, but she was out of ideas and supplies, and Sam was out of time. There was nothing for it but to pace and wait.

When the nurse behind the reception finally tired of giving her pointed glares she shoved a clipboard and a pen into Ruby's hands and backed her into a chair in the waiting area. The stare Ruby gave her had the power to make the undead quake, but apparently had no effect on hardened ER workers. Instead she was reduced to staring at patient and insurance forms she had no idea how to fill out, and stewing in her own impotence, until the phone in her jacket pocket started ringing.

She'd forgotten that she had it; that she'd taken the time to transfer Sam's phone from his own pocket to hers during that endless ambulance ride. She'd probably had some vague notion of ringing Dean, but the wave of statistics and flurry of activity that had heralded Sam's arrival had shoved coherent thought out of her brain.

She pulls the phone out and stares at it, the vibration unnaturally real and solid in her cold hand, the illuminated display announcing 'Dean' to her eyes as loudly as the metallic ring-tone was invading her ears.

Ignoring the scandalised looks in her direction, she answers the call.

"…_hell's going on?" _Dean's voice hit her immediately – he hadn't even paused to give her time to raise the phone to her ear before voicing his dissatisfaction. _"There's blood and gauze and syringe wrappers everywhere and Sam, where the hell are you?"_

"We're at St Michaels Hospital, in the ER," she tells him.

"_Ruby?" _She closes her eyes at the catch of fear in his voice. _"What's..?"_

"Just get here," she orders, ending the call before he forces her to elaborate further. She shuts off the phone so he can't call back and puts it away with a sigh. She has no idea what state they left the room in, just what Dean walked into, and she doesn't want to try. She should have told him something, but she had nothing more to give him, no information or assurances and she's still too mad at him to try.

But Sam would want him here, and she's pretty much ensured he'll get here as soon as physically possible, and at the moment there's nothing more she can do.

-0-

The doctor's just left her when she sees Dean ploughing through the automatic doors, pale and desperate and looking exactly what she feels. His eyes flick manically until he sees her, and then his jaw hardens and he heads in her direction.

She'd been led to a quiet corner to allow the doctor to speak to her with the illusion of privacy, and she waits for him there.

He's breathing heavily, as though he'd run the whole way, and while the waiting has left her body heavy and lethargic, Dean's is practically vibrating with emotion.

"Wha..?"

"He's stable, for now," she cuts across his questions and accusations, feeling somehow closer to him in his anxiety than she ever has before. Sam is the one thing they have in common, but that doesn't draw them closer. He's like a battle line they cannot cross. And while they might both think they know what's best for him, and each have their own agenda for him in mind, she at least is astute enough to know that killing each other is not what Sam would want.

Besides: the sooner she answers his questions, the sooner she can start asking some of her own.

"He collapsed, not long after you left. They think…" she swallows, mouth dry in the face of the intensity of his stare. "They think he had some kind of brain haemorrhage. They've taken him down for an MRI now and they're gonna run some tests. They don't know if he's gonna need surgery…"

"Brain surgery?" Dean's voice catches, and he's lucky they are standing in front of a row of chairs or he'd be on the floor. She sits down beside him, leaving a chair's width for their animosity, and ploughs on.

"He was seizing, at the cabin, and again when they were examining him. He's not… they've got him on a vent. He's still not breathing by himself. He's stable now but without… they won't know any more for a couple of hours."

"But if he needs surgery, he'll be okay? I mean after. He'll still be…"

"They won't know any lasting damage until any swelling goes down, until after they've done whatever they need to do, but…" and here was the kicker. "He stopped breathing, Dean. He was without oxygen for a long time. Maybe too long. They don't… until he wakes up they won't know the full extent of any damage." She lowers her voice. "If he wakes up."

"If… Jesus," Dean breathes. She's had the last couple of hours to process this information, and it still makes no sense to her. She can't imagine what it must be like for Dean, getting the condensed version. But he didn't have to see it. He wasn't there, _again_, and she's not sure if she will ever forgive that.

"What happened?"

That might be the question he asks, but his tone says 'what did you do?' She kept Sam alive for those four months of hell, was the only one watching his back, and if this was her intended outcome she'd have done it long before now. If Dean honestly thought her capable, what has possessed him to walk out of the door and leave the two of them alone together? If Dean truly believes her capable then his decision to go makes him more culpable than any of them.

She used to have Sam all to herself, in body if not in spirit, but Dean gets his physical presence as well as his emotional one now and acts like it's a chore. He took back his car, and he took back Sam with as little thought into what the transition might entail.

"I don't know," she admits quietly, and the truth of that is still killing her. "He was withdrawn, had a headache, but I don't know."

"How can you not..?"

"You were the one that was with him all night," she grinds out, fighting hard to keep her temper in check, "so if anyone should be answering that question I think it should be you. You just left Dean, and within minutes he was…" she closes her eyes and tried to push the images away. "What the hell had you been doing?"

"What did he tell you?"

He's defensive. His little brother has a tube down his throat and his brain leaking out of his ears and Dean's defensive, and that's not the way this is supposed to go.

"Nothing," she tells him. "Just that Young had a buddy, took you by surprise, but you still managed to trap and exorcise them as planned." Dean's lip is split and his left eye has a purplish tinge. "Or maybe not quite as planned. Did one of them get the drop on him? The doctors couldn't see any evidence of head trauma but it would explain some of the symptoms. And what were you arguing about?" It might not be any of her business, but if it caused Dean to walk out and Sam to have a brain haemorrhage she's going to damn well make it her business.

"Kept quiet about that part, did he?" She can tell Dean's aiming for scathing, but his concern prevents him from achieving it.

"He kept quiet about everything," she realises, and she's not sure who that was designed to protect. "He didn't want to talk about anything at all."

"But he told you we exorcised those guys like we'd planned?" He asks.

"Like _you'd_ planned," she corrects. She'd wanted to take Sam and be in and out in 10 minutes, not the three day operation Dean had turned this into.

"And that right there was the problem," he tells her sternly. "He's not supposed to be doing things your way. I don't get why that's so hard for the two of you to understand."

"He said he didn't use his mojo. That it was your Latin that saved the day."

Actually he hadn't said that, she'd just assumed, and at the way Dean's cheek twitches slightly she realises she'd assumed wrong, and her lips curve maliciously. Sam had the mind over matter approach, and he could also perform a Latin exorcism in his sleep. Dean had to be wondering just what exactly his role in all this was. Her grin widened as she took in his bloodied mouth. Apart from playing the damsel in distress.

"He saved your ass, and you're mad at him?"

"I didn't want to be saved that way," Dean's voice is raising to match her anger.

"Well you'd know all about that, wouldn't you," she hisses. "You think you selling your soul for him would have been Sam's _first_ choice of action? You do what you have to do to both walk out alive – you of all people should know that."

"But he didn't _have_ to do it. There's always another way."

"But is there a better way? Stopped him instantly, didn't it?" she presses, and the look in Dean's eyes confirms it. "Not even Sam can rattle off an exorcism in less than 20 seconds. And we can do hell of a lot of damage in 20 seconds," she promises, enjoying the way he flinches as her eyes turn momentarily black.

"But he said he didn't do it that way," she realises. "That was pretty much the only thing he _did_ say. Not that he was clear on the subject," she admits.

"He didn't do it because I wouldn't let him," Dean clarifies. "As soon as I got clear I…"

"You interrupted him?" Her voice is deadly, and it makes Dean's explanation die in his throat. "You stupid son of a bitch." It's making sense now. Everything that's happened over the last couple of hours, everything she's witnessed, and she should kill him where he sits. Should have done it months ago, before Sam had to live with the knowledge this self-righteous bastard went to hell for him. Before the drinking and the bargaining and the 'deathbed' promises. But if she had, Sam would have found out. And she's seen enough of his vengeance to know she doesn't want to be on the other side of it. And she can't say Sam's despair hasn't proved useful. And it's definitely had its advantages.

"Did you give him a chance to finish," she cuts off his rebuttal.

"What?"

"Did he stop, or did you stop him?"

"What the hell difference does it make?"

"The difference between coming down gently and having a bucket load of psychic energy burrowing a hole out of your brain."

She blinks and realises that she's standing, breathing hard, Dean matching her movements. They're dangerously close to making a scene; she can already feel several eyes in the waiting room staring in their direction.

"Congratulations Dean. I bust my ass off keeping him alive. You've just fried your little brother's brain."

He's already well within her personal space but he takes another step towards her, and makes a move as though to hit her.

"Try it," she whispers, eyes darting sideways to point out the security personnel milling by the admissions desk, the curious eyes in their direction. She wants him to hit her, would suddenly welcome the physical pain, and she's dying for the justification to put him on his ass. But for Dean the impotence is more punishment, and she'll have to get what satisfaction she can from that. Not that satisfaction is something she's going to be feeling much of any time soon.

"I was the dutiful girlfriend. I called 911. I was _there_. You might be his brother but you don't even know what name he's admitted under, and these doctors only have _my_ word for it you're family. So you just try it."

She takes a step away and runs a hand over her face, the exhaustion and worry suddenly overwhelming again. She doesn't have to put on a front for Dean, he won't risk the kind of attention beating up a girl in front of witnesses will get him, and he won't risk not being able to see Sam. She can hate him all she wants but she knows he needs to see his brother, understands that all too well, and she suddenly can't find the energy to keep up her anger.

She sits back down in her seat and lowers her head, staring at the floor. It's going to be hours before they hear anything, longer still before they'll know anything for sure, and she can't keep up the hostility that long.

Dean's silent at her side, and after a minute he sits in the row of seats beside her, still maintaining the one seats distance, and she can't shake the feeling that they're waiting for Sam to fill it. To resume his place between their very strong but opposing wills. Clashing head on with Dean yet again, she knows it can't be an easy place for him to be. As much as she enjoys baiting Dean she knows Sam must feel every barb, and she isn't stupid enough to make him choose. She picks her battles, and despite all they've shared and all she's taught him, she knows going up against Dean is a battle she'll loose.

"What happened," Dean asks again at last, voice so thin and thready he has to clear it before he can continue. "I mean… why?" He isn't looking at her, and she's glad for that in a way she wouldn't have expected.

"I don't know," she sighs, shifting slightly to ease the cramp in her shoulders, her body not used to a bowed position. "Not really."

"But you can guess."

"Yeah," she concedes, and she knows that must pain him because he can't. At least not as effectively as she is able. She sighs again and continues, not really comfortable speculating with Dean, discussing Sam's abilities with him in a way she doubts Sam has. It isn't really her place, but Dean needs to know, if only to stop him from doing the same thing again.

"He started pulling the guy that was beating you, right?" It's not really a question, but Dean nods anyway. "It takes quite a build up of energy to expel a demon from its host. We know what's waiting for us and we'll fight like hell not to go there. The energy Sam channels – it has to go somewhere. Usually if he stops it's because the demon's stronger than he is and it wears him down. Or if we're after information he can limit the amount of effort he puts into it to deliberately fail. Honestly? He's never just stopped before. Just changed his mind when he's been working flat out.

"I'm guessing Sam didn't even know what was happening. It's not something that's ever come up – I always figured if he needed to stop and start it would be on his terms. That he wouldn't ever have a build up of energy in him that he didn't provide an outlet for."

"So it found its own way out?" Dean finished for her.

"And not by the kindest route. I knew he had a headache, but he didn't know why. What he needed to do to get rid of it."

"And you didn't tell him."

"_I_ didn't know he'd used them in the first place, let alone that they were slowly killing him. But there was clearly _something_ going on. He wasn't right from the moment I got in."

"Well he was arguing back ok. I wouldn't have just… I didn't know."

"You didn't want to know. And you never thought to ask. Sorry…. I'm just…" she sighs again, wringing her hands in agitation. Providing answers and assigning blame just seems so meaningless while Sam is beyond their help. While there are still so many unknowns. But there was one more thing she wanted Dean to know.

"I tried… when he…" she clears her throat and tries to block out the sound of Sam's body hitting the floor. Her utter uselessness. "I tried… but I couldn't reach him. He'd salted the door… someone had salted the door, so I couldn't… He wasn't breathing, and I didn't know where you were, and I couldn't even start CPR until the ambulance got there and their bustle let me in." She meets Dean's eyes for the first time since they'd resumed their seats, refusing to shy away from the devastation she finds there. "He was tired and he wanted to be alone, and he'd salted the door." And that was the reason he'd been without oxygen for so long. The reason they wouldn't know the true extent of the damage until Sam woke up and told them.

Or didn't, as the case may be.

They'd been sat in silence for thirty minutes before the doctor returned for signed consent to let them operate, and since she had no name or ID, and her hands were still too unsteady to hold a pen, she introduced Dean to the doctor and gave him the honour of signing to give permission to allow them to drill a hole in his younger brother's skull.

She doesn't see him for a while after that. He disappeares into a men's room as they're following the clipboard wielding figure back to the surgery waiting room, an impossible shade of pale, and she's left to another round of waiting and worrying by herself, wondering if it was easier this way or if Dean's presence had at least allowed her to not feel so alone.

He appears again about an hour later, looking utterly wrecked and giving no explanation for the water on his shirt or the blood on his knuckles, and she makes no allusion to the bloodshot eyes that she's seen all too often on Sam. She even doesn't comment on the pacing that makes her nauseous; instead she just closes her eyes and concentrates on not hurling in front of strangers. Again.

When she opens them again it's to find Dean's hand on her shoulder, nudging her awake, and her cheek squashed cruelly against the surface of an orange plastic chair. She sits up slowly, blinking, back and shoulder muscles twinging in protest, and the soft warm weight of a leather jacket slips off her shoulders and onto her lap.

"He's out of recovery." Dean's standing beside her chair. His voice is pitched low but he doesn't give her brain time to wake up to its surroundings. "He's being settled in the ICU now, and we can go in and see him soon."

"Have you seen him yet? When he was out of…?"

Dean's shaking his head and he sits back down on the chair beside her. "They wouldn't let me through when he'd just got out of surgery. They said it went well, and he's doing as good as can be expected. He's still on the vent but his vitals are strong enough to transfer him to a bed in the ICU. The pressure in his brain is going down now they've got the shunt in, and apparently his reflexes, his response to stimulus is more 'promising'" Dean emphasised the word with a sigh. "But really they can't say anything for sure until he wakes up."

She nods wearily, knowing it's the best they can expect, but that none of the doctor's words or reassurances can mean anything next to the fact Sam still isn't breathing, is still unconscious, and still beyond their reach.

"What time is it?" she asks, then shakes her head before he can answer, glancing at the clock that had been the main focus of her attention since she'd walked in here. It's just gone 10:30, and she assumes that means morning, but from the weight of her body and the speed of her thought process to find out it was night again wouldn't surprise her.

They took Sam from her over seven hours ago, but it's still another 20 minutes before anyone makes it back to the waiting room to see them, and she follows yet another doctor down yet another set of corridors and listens to him relate the same information for the fourth time.

Dean says nothing to her but he's the brother and he's clearly in charge now. She's still clutching his jacket, twisting the leather between nervous fingers, and he doesn't take it off her or tell her to cut it out, and it doesn't occur to her to give it back.

The fact he'd used the word 'we' back in the waiting room had not escaped her but she doesn't know if she can trust it, isn't really sure what it means, and is still expecting him to send her away at any moment or barricade the door.

Listening to the doctor's description of the EEG and ventilator, the hole in Sam's skull, there's more than a small part of her hoping he will.

The doctor leaves them at the entrance to Sam's ward. Dean spares a brief nervous glance her way before taking a breath and pushing on inside. She rests her hand on the glass of the door as it swings closed in his wake, but she doesn't have the strength to force it open and follow Dean inside.

She can see Sam's bed towards the centre of the room. Dean takes a seat at its far side, hand hovering over his brother's still arm, chest heaving, and she closes her eyes to give them privacy. Dean hasn't closed the curtained partition behind him, a silent invitation for her to approach, but she's immobile at the threshold to his room.

Sam is pale and still in the bed, tube still grotesquely protruding from his mouth, and she can see enough of the bleeping lights and readouts behind him to know that he's still alive. She's not sure if she can set foot in that room and experience it for herself. Feel the whooshing rhythm of the vent, the artificial rise and fall of Sam's chest, listen to the beeping of his heart monitor and smell the sharp sour scent that accompanies the human effort to ward off death. She doesn't think she can sit and hold the cold, lifeless hands that know her every contour.

Dean is leaning forward, brushing stray strands of hair from Sam's face and his lips are moving, whispering, and she doesn't want to hear those words. She can't go back, she doesn't want to turn her eyes away, but she can't go forward either, caught in limbo. Trapped between two worlds.

Without Sam she has a place in neither.

The last thing Sam did was argue with his brother, and she knows him well enough by now to know that Dean's will be the face he wants to see when he opens his eyes. It's Dean's care and Dean's approval that he needs, and if the screaming matches of the last few months are anything to go by, then Dean needs it just as much.

She made a promise once that she wouldn't come between them, because at the time it was the wisest thing to say, but today she means it. Knows she probably wouldn't be able to if she tried.

But she's come too far to walk away now. Not knowing, and not being there to see it through, really isn't an option anymore. She doesn't want to sit and watch his body cling to life, but she doesn't want him to wake and know she walked away either.

Dean glances up as she enters and he grips Sam's lax hand protectively tighter.

"Is there anything you can do?" he asks her, "Any… I don't know, potion or remedy you can..?"

She shakes her head gently and takes a seat at Sam's other side, opposite Dean, Sam still and unknowing between them. Her arm makes a reflexive move in that direction but she doesn't take his other hand. She's spent months building him up again but Sam looks worse now than when she'd first found him in those early weeks after Dean. His face is grey and dark smudges circle his eyes. Even without the breathing tube and electrodes she would not be able to pretend that Sam is sleeping. There are tight lines of discomfort on his face despite the drugs she knows must be in his system, and while his body is limp it could not be mistaken for relaxed.

"Did they say anything about when he should be waking?" she asks. She's only been in here for a minute and already she wants to flee, wants to _do_ something, where as she knows from Dean's posture that leaving is the furthest thing from his mind. When visiting hours are over Dean will have to be physically removed.

"Nah," Dean breathes, and she curses herself for having fallen asleep, for the tables having been turned, making her reliant on Dean for information now. "But then Sam's always worked to a timetable of his own anyway, so…" Dean shrugs. She doesn't know if it's optimism or defiance – the sheer refusal to believe Sam won't wake – but whichever it is she wishes she could feel it too.

"You definitely got them both?" she asks, when the silence drags on too long. Anything not to have to hear the whirl and click of Sam's vent.

"Yeah." Dean's expression is hard and she isn't reassured. There was nothing in her intel, or her subsequent research, to say there should have been a second demon at all – the fact there was means they can't assume there isn't a third. And it's probable that someone lied to her somewhere along the way. That that lie might be the reason Sam is lying here is not acceptable. And it mustn't go unpunished.

The more she allows her thought to dwell on it, the more the itch starts to grow. She's been a spectator this whole job, providing information and carting supplies. She wasn't even in the building when it all went down, and she was incapable of dealing with the aftermath. She can't make Sam open his eyes, but tracking down the reason it all went to hell is hopefully something she _can_ do. And it will be a darn sight easier than sitting here all day and trying not to restrain the nurse every time she comes in to note Sam's vitals.

But walking away is still hard, and walking away and leaving him with Dean is somehow even harder. She doesn't want to give Dean the pleasure he would no doubt get from seeing her do it.

She'd been going to wait until visiting hours were over but her tolerance for waiting has taken a severe blow over the past 24 hours. Dean's being surprisingly tactile but remaining silent, and she knows she's intruding. Can't help but think Sam would benefit from the stream of consciousness she knows his ears would be bombarded with if only one of them was in here. While they are together neither can seem to find the words, and as uncomfortable and he is, Dean will never leave.

She stands so abruptly Dean flinches, and she knows the moment's pause before she approaches the bed is the only reason she makes it there without Dean's fist connecting with her chin. She understands it, even if she does wish that protectiveness could be channelled into more useful directions.

Her eyes are defiant as she leans over the bed, one hand soothing back the hair from Sam's forehead. She brings her face in close to his, careful not to dislodge the tube with her shoulders.

"I'm coming right back, okay," she whispers in his ear, and she closes her eyes but there's no answering breath on her neck, no brush of fingertips against her am. She brushes her lips lightly against his forehead before pulling away.

Dean's half risen in his seat, and his grip on Sam's wrist is so tight it's probably bruising bone, but she doesn't acknowledge his concern.

"Let me know if…" she clears her throat. "Call me if anything changes. _Anything._"

"Where are you going?" surprise, suspicion and relief are warring for dominance in his features.

"To tie up some loose ends. And to make sure no-one knows you're here. Or why."

Dean nods, his expression touchingly grateful, although whether it's for doing this for them or leaving them alone she can't be sure. But she doe hear the gentle whisper of Dean's voice for the first time in almost an hour as the door swings closed behind her.

-0-

The light is fighting for dominance in the sky by the time she's brushing herself down and ready to leave the scrubland. She's had to bury the body and she thinks maybe Sam might be mad about that, but she's too exhausted to care. She needed information, which is never conductive to the host's survival, and with the 'borrowed' knife the only option open to her she couldn't really have expected any other outcome. She's lucky to have that much as it is; lucky that Dean had not thought to hide the knife in a more effective place than the glove box of the Impala, parked hap-hazardly in the hospital lot.

She'll tell him the guy was already dead, but that won't really be any consolation, since that would mean they've been letting his corpse wander cross country feeding them bullshit information for the past couple of months rather than allowing him to rest in peace. Or maybe she won't tell him anything. He's never been keen to know where her intel is coming from, and she somehow doubts it's going to be the first thought on his mind now.

It's been almost 17 hours and Dean hasn't called. That means it's over 24 hours since Sam stopped breathing in front of her, and they really should have heard something by now. She'd thought that one way or another, by evening, she'd know. If Sam was no-longer in there… if they were waiting for nothing to wake, surely the doctors could tell them that by now.

She's got her revenge and she has no more leads to follow, yet she's still feeling empty and dissatisfied. She has no purpose, nothing to distract herself from the burning question of what exactly is left for her to do now.

Without Sam, what can she do?

She's spent the day tracking down, torturing then killing a demon. She's stated her allegiance; she isn't going to be welcomed back into the fold now with open arms. Without Sam, Dean's main ally is an angel, and it's not going to matter how much cosmic sway Anna holds because if he thinks she's the reason his brother is dead the angels won't have time to kill her. She'll be dead before she leaves that hospital room.

But she's known all along the trauma Sam's body has gone through, and she knows there is no quick fix. They will have to allow Sam to surface in his own time, and trust that he can. Trust that no news is better than some of the conversations she could have had during the course of the day.

But there's a fear and a worry that's clouded her every action since she left Sam's side, a nervousness that twists her stomach, that she cannot shake. She's atoned for her part in this, and she's ready to see it through. To live with the consequences, no matter how painful the wait.

The next round of visiting hours have already started by the time she makes it back to the hospital, not that it would have stopped her if they hadn't. Not that she wouldn't have expected Dean to still be sitting there either way.

She makes it back to Sam's room unchallenged. Dean has moved the curtain round to shield them at some point during the day and she hovers at the other side of it now. She's pitted herself against powerful demons, Lilith and hoards of her henchmen, she allowed Alistair to torture her and got caught between the wills of angels and demons all for this man, all for the greater good, yet the courage to push aside a curtain for him seems suddenly beyond her.

It might be survival instinct but the first thing she notices when she finally pushed the partition aside is Dean, sprawled out on the same chair and reading a magazine. His eyes widen slightly, as though surprised to see her, and he's on his feet with one hand protectively on his brother's shoulder before she can step fully into the area.

Sam's body is angled slightly towards Dean, and he's sleeping. It takes her a moment or two of taking in the scene in front of her – the tilt of Sam's hips, long fingers curled, their tips brushing one cheek, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest – before she can work out what's wrong with the picture.

And then it hits her.

Nothing is.

The room is silent. No beeping, no humming, no click and whirl of a vent. The monitors are still blinking around the bed but the scene is muted and less frantic. There's still an IV in the arm at his side, a pulse ox clip on the finger near his face, but these are only minor intrusions compared to when she had left. Compared to the tube in his mouth and the shunt in his head. For the first time in a day she can see Sam's face, there is nothing forcing air into his lungs, and her legs are suddenly so weak she can barely stand.

She takes a jagged step forward and sinks into the nearest chair with a whisper of thanks, lowers her head and takes a shaky breath, trying to get her heart to stop pounding.

When she raises her eyes Dean is still on his feet, still watching her. Her vision is blurring but she's too relieved to care if he sees her tears.

"When did he..?" she breaks off to cough, and even she doesn't recognise her own voice.

"Couple of hours ago." Dean's gaze flits between her and Sam's bed, as though he can't bear to give her the attention he could be giving Sam.

A couple of hours ago she was trying to drag a dead weight to the trunk of a stolen car and ignore its dying taunts. To ignore how much worse Sam looked on that hospital bed than the example of fresh death before her. A couple of hours ago the fear inside her had had a couple of hours less time to fester and grow.

She'd been going out of her mind with worry, but she'd got the job done.

Dean had been sat on his ass reading a magazine.

"And he's ok?" She presses, "He's not..?"

Dean shrugs guardedly. "They're saying it's still too early to say. He was pretty out of it; I don't think he really got what was going on. But he knew me, could follow a couple of basic commands. He looked at the doc like she was a freak when she asked him who the President was, but that could just be Sam. He can get pretty pissy when you don't let him sleep. But he was awake and mostly responsive, and he's breathing on his own, so they're 'optimistic'."

She nods, trying to make space for that in her brain.

"Why the Hell didn't you tell me!" she bellows. The relief's enough to make her lightheaded. "I've been going out of my mind. Have you any idea…" she can't even finish. Sam might not be fully out of the woods, but compared to the image of him she's been carrying all day… she has to stare at him while she can, just to shove the memory of him cold and unresponsive from her brain.

"I asked you… you said you'd call me. How could you just..?"

"How could you just leave?" Dean asks her. "If you cared so damn much, how could you..?"

"I was trying to keep you _safe,_" she shouts back, jumping to her feet. Dean towers over her still but she doesn't care. "I was making sure there were no other loose ends left to bite you in the ass. It's done, by the way. The only demon who knew you were here is toast now, so you don't have to worry about anyone tracking you down while you're vulnerable. And since I'm guessing you hadn't even thought of that, a little thanks would be nice."

"_Thanks! _It's thanks to _you_ that we're here in the first place," Dean screams. "If you hadn't taught him that neat little trick that screwed with his brain…"

"Then you'd be dead right now."

"But _he_ wouldn't be here," Dean finishes, and there's nothing she can really say to that, because he's right. But in more ways than one.

"He would never have got this far. His powers kept him alive when you couldn't, and one day you're going to have to come to terms with that."

"I don't have to do any…"

"It's a part of who he _is_ Dean. You don't have to like it, but if you turn your back on it, you're turning your back on a part of him.

"We sat in that waiting room together for hours. You _knew_ how worried I was and you just, what? You don't care. You're a selfish bastard if you could just leave me hanging after the time and energy you knew I'd put in. You think I don't have a right to know? To be here? He has a life outside you Dean, you don't own him."

"Um… guys?"

"And you do? I might not be screwing him…"

"Hey!"

"…and I might not be able to kill things with my brain, but he's _my_ brother, and I…"

"_Guys._"

"_What_!" Dean rounds on the bed with his arms flailing and his eyes blazing. Sam just blinks at him patiently.

"Can you," he gestures weakly to the door with a hand weighed down by the pulse ox monitor, "take it outside or something, I'm trying to sleep. And I kinda have a headache."

Dean does a double take so fast he must give himself whiplash.

"Hey," he gushes, and there's a warmth in his voice where seconds before there had been only cold fury. "How you feeling?"

Sam's eyes dart between the two of them lazily, but warily, and she gets the impression he's trying to gauge how to answer that question for the best.

"Been better," he croaks in the end, and her stomach clenches as she wonders which of them he's muting his answer for.

"I should call the doc, go tell them you're awake," Dean tells him, but he's sat back at Sam's side again, hand on the edge of his bed, and makes no effort to go.

"Yeah," Sam breaths, and he shifts a little, makes the effort to sit up slightly in bed, and his face scrunches up in pain.

"Easy, don't move," Dean sooths, but it's a order, and his hand is back on Sam's shoulder, to keep him still this time, and she hasn't even found the energy to move. She can't tear her eyes away, but she can't go to him either, and the furrowed brow and the pain in his eyes are suddenly so much harder to watch. They'd been the norm once, but she'll never breathe easy through it again.

"Just breathe," Dean intones, which probably isn't the best advice for someone who had a plastic tube shoved down their throat a little over 24 hours ago and left there for the better part of a day.

The breath makes Sam wince and choke, which only hurts his chest and his head even more. By the time he's finished there are tears lining his face and Dean is looking decidedly less calm, his fingers clenching so tight on Sam's shoulders he has to prize them open again, and when Sam winces once more she knows they've probably left a bruise.

Sam just wilts back into the bed when he's done looking pained and exhausted, and while he's not coughing or whimpering she isn't feeling reassured. At Dean's tight lip and his frown she can tell he's feeling the same thing.

"I'm gonna see if I can find that doctor," he offers quietly.

Sam closes his eyes, licks his lips, and gives a tentative nod. Dean gives her a brief moment of eye contact as he brushes past her to leave, and she can't tell if the hard glint there is an acknowledgement of shared concern, a plea for her to do something, or merely to let her know he'll hunt her down and kill her slow if she does anything to Sam while he's gone.

She hovers uncertainly at the foot of Sam's bed. He'd looked almost peaceful in the two minutes she'd seen him before waking, but while his eyes are closed now she can tell he's not a peace.

He opens one eye to regard her standing there, staring at him, and she's suddenly very aware of his frailty, and of Dean's absence.

"Do you know what happened?" she asks him quietly, moving to stand at the foot of the bed.

"Do you?" He's looking at her directly now. The last time he'd locked eyes with her he'd been bleeding, dying, but he'd been asking for something from her too. And he still is. He's asking for help.

"I think so, yeah."

"Well. I guess that's another thing you're going to have to teach me."

"I think that can be arranged."

They haven't spoken about it since that night with Anna, but they've been dancing around it, knowing it's on both their minds. She doesn't know if Sam being less out of practice would have made a difference, if the strain on his mind was more last night because his abilities had been dormant for so long.

And that's something they are never going to risk finding out. If they have to work twice as hard in the future to keep Sam in shape, then that is what they will do. She won't live through another repeat of this weekend, and more importantly, she doesn't think Sam would live through it either. And he still has things to do.

"But not right now."

He narrows his eyes, questioning not accusatory, and the action must pull something because he has to bite his lip as his complexion greys.

That just strengthens her resolve.

"I'll tell you everything, we'll go over everything, I promise. But not now. Not until you're ready."

He's in no condition to go up against anything at the moment, and it will probably be a while until that changes. He doesn't come with an instruction manual, and in truth she'd been feeling her way. They've just had to drill a hole in his skull, his brain was haemorrhaging, and they have to give time for that to heal. It would be stupid not to. That might mean laying off using his powers for a while, and it might mean they're back close to where they started from when they pick up again, she doesn't know. But Sam is a quick study and they've done it once before.

And there are other things Sam needs to do, and needs to fix, in the mean time.

"When..?"

"I'll be in touch."

He doesn't ask her how, but he knows she always finds him when she needs to.

"When you're ready. Get some rest and take it easy for a while; you need to build your strength up. And make nice. Things are gonna be a whole lot easier if Dean's not watching your every move like he's animal control and you're a pet that might need to be put down."

"Nice."

"I'm just saying…" she shrugs. It's harsh but she knows he understands. "You scared the crap out of me," she admits quietly.

He blinks slowly in acknowledgement. "You're not the only one."

She doesn't know if she'd expected some kind of apology, or even an acknowledgement at least that shutting out the one person in all this that was trying to help him be what he needed to be had been a shitty idea. She wants to make him promise never to do it again but he can barely keep his eyes open, and she isn't convinced he'd know what she was talking about. That he could even explain to himself why he had done it.

She'll just have to go out of her way to make sure he never does anything that stupid again. Never feels that he has the cause to.

The sound of voices filers in from the corridor and Sam's eyes flick in that direction, face pulled up in a frown. She knows what she'll see before she turns, Dean in the face of a stammering nurse, arms gesturing and eyes blazing. The hand Dean brings to his face as she hurries contritely away is shaking, his posture bowed. It's the same tone she heard him use with Sam before he left, but this time Dean's voice is raised on his brother's behalf. She knows it, but from the far away look on Sam's face she's sure he doesn't understand it, no matter how desperately he wants it to be true.

"Can you give us some time?" he asks her. He's watching Dean storm away down the corridor, a glimmer of hope on his face. It shouldn't take one of them in the ICU for them to realise their priorities. She wants to shake him and make him see that. Sam had been her focus before his lapse in training and concentration had landed him in hospital, and he'll continue to be so when he's strong and can be put to use.

But at the moment Dean's fear and his attention are written clearly on his face; even Sam, still not firing on all cylinders, can see that. And he needs it. But Ruby has no idea what will happen to that devotion when Sam can stand on his own two feet again. Can once again make and act on decisions that Dean won't like.

She can't begin to imagine how much easier this would be if they had Dean's blessing; the personal roadblocks that would remove. But she isn't a miracle worker. All she can do is be there and see that Sam's determination doesn't waver.

"Of course," she agrees. She doesn't mention she'd all but promised that anyway. He must still be disorientated, but she knows this experience has unnerved him. He needs to come to her, he'll be more amenable that way, but she's confident that he will. He and Dean will make nice, and then he'll come to her, with or without his brother's permission.

She doesn't want to walk out and leave him hurt and confused on a hospital bed. She doesn't want to leave him to the tests and explanations and recovery alone. She wants to tell him that, wants to tell him that she'll be keeping an eye on them, making sure he gets the down time that he needs. But she somehow can't find the words, isn't sure he'd retain them, and all she says is "I'll be in touch" before she heads for the door.

Dean is making his way up the corridor back to Sam's room and there's no way she can leave without him noticing. His eyes flash with anger as he sees her, then flick to the closed door to Sam's ward. He hadn't actually said the words 'don't leave him', and she doubts he would be physically capable of issuing them to her, but it's only when she sees his reaction to her leaving that she realises he probably isn't comfortable with the idea of Sam being alone.

They can spilt up in haunted houses or in towns where they know demons are on the loose, but Sam can't be alone for two minutes in a hospital bed when he is hooked up to a dozen monitors and has a doctor and brother in the corridor outside.

It only takes a moment for him to remember that he didn't want her there in the first place, and then the smirk to returns.

"He throw you out?" Dean asks conversationally, stopping deliberately in front of her and barring her way, preventing her quiet escape.

The assumption ruffles her, perhaps more so because it's a reasonable one – she long overstayed her welcome, but she doesn't _want_ to leave him now, especially not with Dean and his smug attitude, and not when she has no idea what Dean's thinking. Whether this event is the wake up call he needed to see Sam _needs_ to be trained, or whether he's going to be even more against it than ever.

And technically it is true. Sam did ask her to go. But he asked her to come back again too and she smiles, enjoying the way it makes Dean's own cocky grin waver. The distrust and distain are back in his face and she can't help but wonder is she's done the right thing. She remembers again the anger in Dean's voice back at the cabin, the violence of his movements, recalls the pointed comments and sideways glances, the stifling lack of trust. She's seen the pain it causes Sam, as much as he tries to hide it, and she's left him alone to face it, too reliant on Dean to be able to avoid or ignore.

Dean grunts and pushes past her, knocking her shoulder again and she sighs and closes her eyes in search of patience. She doesn't stumble this time, just turns with the motion to watch him disappear in his brother's room without a backward glance.

She takes a step in that direction, momentarily unsure. Sam's curled back on his side, facing away from the door to avoid lying on the IV, and Dean moves around to that side of the bed to be in his brother's line of sight. And Ruby can see the softness in his gaze as he does so. The gentle turn of his mouth, the light touch of his fingertips against Sam's arm. The sheer calm and reassurance that is his presence. And she remembers something else too.

She remembers that Dean went to Hell for his brother, and had risked doing so again to keep Sam safe, even after learning about the demon blood and powers, the company Sam keeps.

She remembers the absolute devastation Dean left in his wake, and how hard she had worked to acquire even Sam's limited trust. Dean can be coarse and intolerant and an asshole, but he can still be that guy too. The guy that keeps a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder as the doctor finally pushes past her and moves into the room, who can bring out that timid, dimpled grin

She knows that brother is still in there, buried beneath the fear and anger and memories of Hell, and she knows that Sam has clung to it since Dean's return. And maybe before too long Dean will remember that too.


End file.
